Chapter 6
The fog twisted, writhing and hissing, as the motorcycle’s headlight cut through its seeking limbs.
I sped along the glistening, rain-soaked highway, hunched over the handlebars.
The road’s black tar was the scaled, wet back of a giant snake, and the rain hitting the asphalt and ricocheting back at me was its venom.
Ghostly monoliths were thrust from the fog and yanked back in as I sped past neighborhoods.
Gingkoes wrapped in the skeletal folds of mist warningly rattled their branches.
Fellow travelers rode inside hunch-backed beasts with eerily shining eyes—cars swallowed in the mist. The fog made New York a haunted landscape.
It made the serpentine highway snaking into Hell’s Kitchen a figment’s playground.
Since the new moon, the wind had suffocated the city with nights of fog, rain, and lamentations. Its groans drowned out the roar of my motorcycle’s engine shouting, Where? Where?
I didn’t have the heart to tell the wind that my brother was probably dead.
I’ve been asked to kill many things, but the worst thing I’ve been asked to kill is hope.
There’s something especially terrible about a person who delights in murdering hope. I find I can’t do it.
Hell, I know, is endless suffering. The terrible thing about it is, when you’re suffering and you believe you’ve reached the deepest, darkest depths . . . no, you haven’t. There is always a deeper, darker place. The descent is endless. There is always a darker misery.
My whole life, I knew I’d someday be a mine.
I could’ve been bitter, angry, or I could’ve picked up that misery, shouldered it, and done what little good I could.
The wind was mourning. It smothered the city in a depression of fog. It choked the storm drains with heaven’s own tears. It howled and wailed and searched. The wind was a funny thing. I’d always thought it was fickle. But this wasn’t the rain of an inconstant heart.
The wind loved my brother. I think the wind loved as I loved.
So I took comfort in the fog slashing itself over me and the rain driving itself against me. I took comfort in the weeping mists and the howling gusts.
I couldn’t mourn, but the wind could mourn for me.
I cut the motorcycle engine at the water’s edge. The fog shrouded the view, but I knew piers stretched into the Hudson like long claws pointing toward New Jersey’s shore. I pulled free my helmet and swung myself off the bike.
If it were a clear, blue-sky day, I would see car lots, dirty brick buildings, and concrete sidewalks sprouting grass and weeds. But if it were day, then the Night Den wouldn’t be open for business.
A three-story-tall redbrick warehouse was wrapped in mist. It stretched an entire city block, but the rain and the fog obscured all but what was directly across the street from me.
I’d been here with Jagger only a month ago.
I’d secretly married Finn here. I’d spent countless nights here. I’d . . .
I’d loved the Night Den.
It was where Finn, Luvic, and I had become best friends. It was where Finn and I had fallen in love. It was where Luvic had brought Cora when they first met.
The redbrick had a row of glass block windows lining its lower level.
Almost all the windows on the upper floors were bricked up or covered with plywood.
Years of graffiti layered the brick. I smiled at the spray-painted letters “F + M.” Finn had graffitied that when he was twelve.
He’d only meant that he’d stick with me no matter what. Later, it meant more.
I tilted my chin and looked at the light shining through a second-story window. The curtains were drawn, but I could see movement inside.
It was Finn’s bedroom.
Was he there?
Jagger had been very clear in his instructions. “Take the omnibus. Hit the Night Den. Burn it to the ground. If Alterra is there, go ahead and try to kill him—but Mari, I don’t want you speaking to old friends. Not tonight.”
It was hard to misinterpret that, especially when he added, “No conjurer, including Alterra, may know by word, action, or deed that you once . . . cared. You did care, didn’t you?”
I nodded. He knew I’d felt friendly toward Finn during the games. It wasn’t a secret.
He stared at me like a hungry lizard watching an ant.
“I think you may still care. I don’t feel it, but .
. . you may. Trust me, if you do, I’ll taste it.
I’ll find it. I enjoy tasting suffering, Mari.
If you care for the conjurers, then it will pain you to harm them.
I enjoy that. So, please. Feel free. Care for them.
Do you know why I let Justice fight me?” When I didn’t answer, he smiled.
“It’s because he suffers with what I make him do.
His suffering tastes like bitter herbs. I wonder what yours will taste like. ”
I remained silent, and Jagger nodded.
“We’ll see. You taste like mine. You act like mine. I’m going to enjoy watching your descent. I promise I’ll make it fun for you. So, Mari, no conjurer by word, action, or deed may know you once cared or that you still care. Go.”
I sped away from Hell Gate, leaving the denizens to feast until glutted and drink until half-dead. With one look, I knew Rou would stitch up Justice and Griff would carry him out of the hall. They’d make sure he didn’t suffer an “accidental” death during the celebratory melee.
Now I was staring at Finn’s bedroom window, wishing the figure behind the curtain would push it aside and look out into the mist.
The omnibus was strapped in its sling on my back.
It was large, with a thick barrel as long as my arm.
Justice could hold it with one hand and fire, but I had to hold it with two.
Plus, it kicked like a mule. Justice claimed it left bruises on your shoulder girdle, a little kiss for a job well done.
The omnibus was Jagger’s favorite creation. It was a personal projectile launcher that shot a dozen high-powered missiles made from Furtig, gunpowder, ground bone, and Jagger’s blood—a nasty concoction capable of causing massive explosions that burned through anything.
Except . . .
I narrowed my eyes on the window.
A Smith’s blue fire shield.
On our trip north, Justice had shot us with an omnibus and Wolfgang had shielded the car. It had blocked the explosion.
I smiled.
If that was Finn, then he could stop the omnibus.
He was a conjurer now, wasn’t he? That was what I’d heard. He was the Smith now. The wearer of the crown. A powerful, ruthless, horrible conjurer.
An itch trailed up my spine, and the wind tugged at my braid. Someone was watching me. The spider-crawling-up-my-neck sensation pointed to the river’s edge. Maybe it was a water spirit or a figment. Maybe it was someone sneaking toward the Night Den. More likely, Jagger had sent someone to spy.
He would want to make sure I did the job right.
I expected his eyes on me—I just didn’t expect him to be so obvious.
I sighed, and the fog skittered back, shying away from me, as I stepped forward.
The Night Den was quiet. That was illusion though. Behind the brick walls and beneath the ground, there would be hundreds of people gathered.
Maybe Cora.
Maybe Luvic.
Maybe Finn.
The omnibus was heavy on my back.
I pulled a thunderer free. It was as small as a toy jack, but heavy with sharply pronged metal. Similar to a flash-bang but made by Jagger, thunderers caused a blinding flash and a deafening boom. They were a good way to either catch or divert attention.
I looked left, then right.
No one was on the street, just me, the fog, and my anonymous watcher.
Holding my breath, I launched the thunderer at Finn’s bedroom window. The glass shattered. Shards rained and smashed against the concrete.
A bright flash. A violent boom.
The figure inside dove to the side. Was it him? He was the right height. The right width and shape. He moved the same. But it could be any Smith. It could be Darin.
My breathing was loud, my blood whooshing in my ears.
No one appeared in the window.
I tugged the omnibus free in one smooth motion.
The omnibus didn’t have a safety, and it didn’t fire like other weapons. You just aimed and pushed your pointer finger into a needle on the “trigger.” Once the needle tasted your blood, it activated the omnibus and sent the missiles in the direction you pointed.
I widened my stance, braced the omnibus, and held my finger above the needle.
Come on. Come on. Come out and see who’s knocking.
If I could, I’d shout out, but I didn’t want to fight Jagger’s will. I wouldn’t speak. I’d only . . .
Come on. Come out.
My hands shook. It was almost impossible to resist jamming my finger into the needle.
I stared intently at the Night Den while Jagger’s will washed through me. Burn it to the ground.
A man jumped out of the second-story window. He stepped out and smoothly dropped twenty feet as if it were only two.
My breath cut off. One second I had air; the next I didn’t.
He was alive.
He was alive.
I wanted to drop the omnibus. I wanted to shout and cry and laugh and scream. I wanted to run across the street and throw myself into his arms. I wanted to hold him and protect him, and I wanted to shake him and yell at him for putting himself in danger.
Jagger’s blood sensed the door to my locked room cracking open and its jaws snapped hungrily. I shoved the door closed and concentrated on the wild banging of my heart.
I devoured Finn’s appearance.
It was him, but it wasn’t.
He was the same but different.
Before, he’d reminded me of a calm mountain lake. He was the smooth surface, the steady current, the soothing, cool water. He was powerful in the way a clear blue lake is powerful, with untold depths, lifelong loyalty, and unwavering goodness.
There was nothing of that mountain lake left.